“This is the part I carry,” I say, voice even. Final. “You stay clear of it.”
“I’m built for this, Gio.”
“I know.” I hold her gaze, let her see it. “That’s why I keep it away from you.”
She draws her hand back slowly, recalibrating. “Convenient.”
“Necessary. Final.”
The phone buzzes a third time.
No need to look. Something just shifted—from rumor to consequence, from curiosity to action. A line drawn between who I am and who I’m sitting with.
Careful who you stand next to.
The warning isn’t for me.
I slide the phone into my pocket, silencing it, but the realization already sits under my ribs. If this keeps moving, it won’t stop at my name. It’ll circle hers. Her work. Her future. Doors she hasn’t opened yet.
Zoë lifts her glass and takes a measured sip. Calm, not careless. The calculation runs behind her eyes. Standing beside me when the room is full is theater. Standing beside me now—after the exits—is where reputations crack.
“You should finish that,” I say, nodding at her glass.
“I’m pacing myself.”
“We’re not staying long.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. Close.”
She stills. Assessment sharpens her posture. “No.”
“I state it as a decision.”
“Then let me be clear.” She leans in, closing space I thought I held. “I agreed to public proximity. I agreed to visibility. The agreement stops at intimacy.”
Heat coils, tight and dangerous. “I asked for something else.”
“You implied it.”
“I implied privacy.”
“For what?”
“To talk.” My hand moves before I stop it, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Controlled. Territorial. My thumb settles at the curve of her neck, where her pulse flutters.
She doesn’t pull away or lean in. She holds—steady, deliberate—letting me feel exactly what I’m risking.
“About what?” she asks quietly.
“The endgame.”
“The part where you clear your name and erase me?”
“The part where this stops being survivable and starts being permanent.”
Her breath catches. Just once. Enough.
